Samsara
by BobLoblawLawBlog
Summary: "A dilemma has arisen. If she confronts him, she'll have to talk to him. And if she doesn't then she'll have to lay here, awake, wondering if he's still out there." ARRRRRGGTGHH. HERE. Have some angsty, painful Makorra smut.


**A/N: Written after watching "The Guide" because I seem to like torturing myself. This will no doubt be very, very AU by the time the season ends.**

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She knows that it's him from the sound of the footsteps outside her tent, the awkward way they crunch in the snow as they approach, then stop, then turn and go in the other direction, then come back, then pace nearby for a bit. She pulls the furs over her head because she just _can't. _Not right now. Not with what she has to do tomorrow. The stupid, guilty look on his face as she explained the whole harmonic convergence thing was bad enough. It was the same look Naga would give her when she would get anxious and chew up one of Korra's boots if she was away for too long.

And then there is Asami. Given the way the heiress refused to meet her gaze, the way she and Mako sat as far away from each other as possible without being in separate rooms, Korra _knows _something has happened. And worse than being aware of that fact is the fact that she _cares_, the fact that it _hurts _despite the fact that there are _more important things_. She hates the way she feels—guilty and angry and ashamed and hopeful all at the same time. She hates the way the memory of the scene she made at the police station keeps nudging it's way to the forefront of her brain and making her wince. And she hates Mako's stupid face and his eyes full of concern and need. And most of all she hates the way his touch when they awkwardly shook hands in greeting sent liquid fire racing through entire body.

It's infuriating, the way she's still drawn to him, still wants to take his big dumb head in her hands and mess up his hair and kiss the worry away, still wishes that instead of that ridiculous handshake he had hugged her and lifted her off the ground one more time just to remind her he could. And lying alone in the cold dark, she misses the sound of him breathing next to her, the weight of his body against her, filling up all of her hollow places. She remembers lying awake in his bed in his new apartment, waiting to surprise him. And instead he had surprised her by kissing her awake with one hand threading through her hair and pulling her mouth up to meet his, his other hand lifting her lightly by the waist before sinking back down with her, covering her completely and whispering "_I love you" _as their bodies caught up with the dream she had been enjoying before he arrived.

Several minutes pass, and she continues to ignore the twinge between her thighs—which she'll probably have to take care of herself, again, once he leaves—and thinks that maybe he's gone. But then the snow crunches again and she hears the sound of someone beating their hands against their coat for warmth. _Why doesn't he just firebend? Oh. Right. Because he thinks he's being sneaky. What an idiot_.

A dilemma has arisen. If she confronts him, she'll have to talk to him. And if she doesn't then she'll have to lay here, awake, wondering if he's still out there or if he's ever going to ask to come in.

It might as well be on her terms.

She stands up (the tent is high enough) and runs her fingers roughly through her hair, trying to look sort of presentable, and she stumbles over her pallet of furs to the opening, sparking a fire in her palm as she unseals it. At least she's still in her daytime clothes. And there he is, his big stupid back facing her, his shoulders hunched as he mumbles something or other to himself. _Is he rehearsing? _She clears her throat, and he startles.

"Hey," he says, looking like a kid caught masturbating, his cheeks turning as red as his nose, his arms covering his chest in a defensive posture.

"Get in here, idiot. You'll freeze to death."

"I just… I was just looking…"

"For what? The bathroom? It's on the other side of camp. This tent is the only thing within a hundred feet of where you're standing, so you're caught."

He drops his hands at his sides and crunches over to her, the brilliant clarity of the night making the sound seem extra loud. He ducks a little as she holds the flap open for him, and she seals the skins shut to keep in the warmth. She lights the little gas lamp hanging from the top and stands with her arms crossed waiting for him to talk. He doesn't.

"I heard you were in jail. Again," she says, partly by way of small talk, partly trying to provoke him.

"Yeah. I got out."

"So I see."

"Yeah."

Several interminable seconds pass.

"I heard you lost your memory."

"Yeah. I got it back."

"Uh huh."

More silence.

She sighs, "Look, Mako, you came here to say something, obviously. I know we've never been great at talking, but spit it out. Please. I need to get some sleep."

He sort of exhales and sort of hisses. "I..I do have some things to say. A lot actually. But I know what you have to do tomorrow and I want to help and I also want to apologize and to explain, but I know that we—you and I—are not the most important thing you have to deal with, and I'm not sure if what I have to say is something you need to hear right now but I also…I also wonder if this is the last chance I'm going to have to…you know…say it."

Her posture relaxes. "Mako, it's going to be fine." She wishes she were as sure as she sounds.

His hands fret nervously as he struggles to figure out where to put them. She can tell they are trembling. "I know…I mean I know you. You always pull through, but I've known you, what, almost a year? And you've disappeared how many times at this point? I mean, I know…but I'm never sure."

She hates to give him this, to let his concern sway her. But in spite of herself, she reaches out, palms down and takes his hands out in front of her body and lets him hang on. For the first time since she's known him, his narrow fingers, left bare by his gloves, are ice cold. So she inhales and sends warmth from her core out through her extremities and into him.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I abandoned you. That you had to face all of that alone."

"I'm sorry I pushed you away."

It hurts to say it, even worse than admitting fault to Tenzin. And she thinks that if he forgives her she'll have to kill him. But instead, he just squeezes her hands ever so slightly. He's still apologizing himself.

"And I have to tell you something. Something happened while you were gone. Between Asa…"

Before the other woman's name leaves his lips, Korra claps her hand to his mouth and presses the other firmly against his chest.

"Don't," she says loudly. "Just don't. I don't want…just not right now, ok?"

He nods, his mouth still covered with her hand.

"You make me want to hate you sometimes," she hisses.

In response, he impulsively takes her wrist and kisses the palm that's silencing him, then her pulse point. Her eyes flash with anger, and she jerks away, trying to ignore the burn his lips have left on her skin.

"I'm sorry," he sputters out again. "I just…arrrrghh…why is it so hard to just talk to you?"

She shrugs. "I guess we just bring out the worst in each other."

He looks stung. "I don't believe that," he says forcefully. "And I don't think you really do either."

She throws up her hands, "Whatever. Look, let's talk about this, you know, after?"

"Fine, he says. But before I go, I have to tell you that whatever it is you're facing, I'm here for you. For real now. I want to fight with you…alongside you I mean. If I can."

She feels her resolve to keep being mad at him weakening. Because this is the Mako she fell in love with, the one who made her part of his team, the one who knew they were stronger together rather than separate, the one who faced her worst nightmares with her, the one who wouldn't give up.

So instead of showing him the way out immediately, she looks him in the eye and says, "I know." And she lets him pull her into a hug. And at the point when it would be appropriate for two friends to break an embrace, she holds on, because the familiar feel and smell of him are drowning her, and she can feel a sob gathering in her throat when he squeezes a little tighter. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and lifts her so that just her toes are on the ground, and she's pretty sure she's going to shatter into a thousand pieces when he lets go.

And it's for that reason—and absolutely no other—that when he pulls his head back and she is afraid this is the end, she turns her face and finds his mouth with her own. And when they come together it's like the plates of the earth's crust colliding. His tongue slides roughly against hers, and she bites his lower lip until she thinks she tastes blood. Her fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck and squeeze until he gasps in pain. She likes that. She wants it to hurt. Just a little.

Her body is ablaze, and her fingers tingle as she fumbles for the buttons on his coat. He takes off his gloves and helps her before roughly pulling off her arm wraps and slipping both hands under her shirt. It feels good, painfully good, when his thumb brushes the stiff peak of her right breast through her underthings. His lips leave her mouth and travel down the line of her throat, latching onto that spot at the base that he knows makes her melt.

She gasps, and her knees nearly buckle, and she's not sure if she wants to let him love her tenderly or throw him onto the furs and ride him until he falls apart. Maybe a little of both. She could also shove him outside in the freezing cold and make her listen to her finish herself off as punishment for making her weak. But this is her fault too. And it's stupid. So, so stupid.

She opts to seek more of his skin, feeling the firm lines of his stomach take form under her fingers, shifting as he removes more layers. And when he pulls her back into his embrace, she feels his arousal poking hard through his pants, and she pulls back from his searing, searching mouth long enough to ask, "Do you have anything?"

He frantically pats at his various pockets until he comes up with a small packet, and she smiles against his lips and pulls him, hard, toward the pallet of furs. They are down to their underwear when he lifts her effortlessly off her feet and gives her the signal—_their _signal—to wrap her legs around his waist. High off the ground, she bites into his shoulder—like she loves to do—just to see if he will drop her. But he doesn't. He never does. Instead he kneels slowly and bears her down onto the pallet, cushioning their descent with one arm. This display of strength and control never fails to impress her, and he knows it. And she knows that he knows.

"This is probably a bad idea," he says between fevered kisses, stating the obvious. "You need to get some rest or something."

"You pretty much nixed that when you decided to pace outside my tent," she retorts. "Besides, the world ends tomorrow."

"You're not going to let that happen." And her response turns into a moan as he seals his mouth against hers.

She lets herself relax under him, feeling the mass of him, the intensity of him pressing her into the earth, which vibrates with unrest as the planets work their way into alignment. She traces the lines of his back with her fingers, taking a moment to grip the gentle bulges of his shoulders before following them down to his deltoids and the graceful dip of his spine. These are places on his body that are so familiar she can predict the way they will flex beneath her touch, the way the tendons at his neck will tense as he bends to kiss her harder, deeper.

They have a rhythm when they are together, a dance of sorts, choreographed over months of learning each other. But right now, he is breaking the routine. Instead of moving down her body from head to toe, he is erratic, leaving wet kisses on her stomach before returning to her mouth, caressing the underside of her knee with one hand before reaching up for her covered breast. He is a mess, gasping each time she pulls his hair or lets her fingernails scrape against his ribs. And his erratic groping both turns her on and makes her want to punch him.

Finally, she flips them over, strips him bare, and finds the condom where they dropped it earlier. She feels him watching her roll it on, and she takes a moment to admire him laid out before him, too little skin stretched over bone and sinew, red spots still visible on his pale skin where she handled him roughly. Meeting his eyes, she watches him watch her bare her breasts and swats him away once when he reaches out to touch. She smiles, and he tries again, and this time she lets him grip and twist and pinch while she bites her lip to ward off a scream. And then she lifts one leg up and then the other to shimmy out of her underwear, when without warning, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her up and forward until she's almost sitting on his face. And then his mouth is _there_. She falls backward and catches herself on his hips as she feels him pull hers even close so that he can nip and suck and explore.

She comes terrifyingly fast, shaking as he continues to hold her still and doesn't let up with his mouth. This is even more surprising. He usually stops this part once she climaxes, but he is still tapping her clit with the tip of his tongue, and she doesn't know quite what to do without time to regroup. She feels the tension gathering in her again, stretched like a band to the point of breaking. But he doesn't let her come a second time. Instead, he pushes her away from his mouth and takes one hand from her hip and circles her opening with a single finger. She wants it—wants _him_—in her so bad, she thinks she's going to black out. She digs into his hips with her nails, and in surprise, he lets go of her. She slides out of his grasp and down to his erection before he can say a word. He doesn't object.

They both sigh as he stretches and fills her. His stupid, beautiful face is slashed with shadows created by the lamplight, and his eyes are full of her. They move together slowly at first, grinding ever so slightly and never breaking eye contact. Then she begins to pull off of him and back on again, and she closes her eyes in concentration as she feels him strike the spot that's been missing him. And he takes her cue and thrusts against her, one hand gripping her buttock and the other travelling up to caress and pinch her nipple.

The climb is slower this time, the heat radiating in gentle waves from her center to the five points of her body. They move so well together, and she knows it. They can burn and shock and terrify one another, but in the end—at their best—their energy is woven together without break or seam. She can feel the chi move through his body as his muscles contract, feel his breath leave his lungs as she bears down. She knows each movement by heart.

And more than that, she knows that he is, has always been, torn apart by competing loyalties, by the excruciating need that calls to him from everyone he loves. And for whatever reason, in spite of all the ways she's found to bruise him, he returns to her again and again. And she knows that she will just keep loving him back even if it hurts too much to tell him so, even if she's afraid to trust him again, to trust _herself _with him.

As everything starts coming once again to a sharp point in the pit of her, she leans forward to kiss him gently, and he knows it's time. He flips them over without parting from her an inch, and he raises her knees to his shoulders so that he can fall into her hard and deep and fast. And as he does, her back arches, and she bites into the soft flesh of his arm to keep quiet, and his climax follows hers a few strokes later.

When he pulls out, she feels sated but empty, and when he rolls away to find his undershirt and clean himself off, she finds herself reaching out for him again, clutching at his flesh until he draws her against his chest. And as she falls asleep, she hears him whisper, "I love you" into her hair. And she believes him. She will always believe him.

The sunrise is weak and unconvincing, but when Korra wakes with sticky hot skin pressed against his, she knows it is time to gird herself for battle. He is still deep asleep, and he doesn't rouse as she gets dressed and puts out the still-burning lamp. As she starts to leave, she turns to look at his face again.

_Stupid humans_, she thinks. Of all the ways the species had devised to torture each other, surely none could be worse than this love that digs in with needle-sharp claws and refuses to let go. But this is what she goes to fight for, so that they could go on hurting and loving and bleeding and mending until they could put that awful cycle behind them. She remembers a word heard so long ago it might have been from a different lifetime: _samsara._

She whispers it to herself as she continues to gaze at him, beautiful and brave and hopeless and full of too much love. _And yes_, she thinks. _The fight is worth it._

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**A/N: The first couple of reviews of this story have both referenced condom use. This surprises me, since a lot of Avatar-verse writers have their characters use prophylactics, but I just wanted to clear something up:**

**Condoms have existed for over 400 years. Rubber condoms were invented in the 19th century and were the most popular form of birth control by the beginning of the 20th. During WWI, the only army that did not provide condoms to its soldiers was-you guessed it-the United States. Mass-produced latex condoms were introduced to the world in the 20s. The only barrier to use or widespread distribution was moral condemnation.**

**While smut is still fundamentally about fantasy, I like to keep mine as realistic as possible, and birth control is a part of that when you have young adult characters. In another story, I have Korra using a diaphragm, which is also historically accurate.**


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